


I Pant for You

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confused John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Panty Kink, S2E1 related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: John causes a bit of a domestic with Sherlock over a suspiciously missing pair of white panties, last seen in Buckingham Palace...





	I Pant for You

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written a long time ago, when there was a discussion on Tumblr over whether or not Sherlock was wearing tiny white lady's panties with lace under his sheet. They were glimpsed, by some, at the moment just before he covered up, and denied by others. Personally, I could see them on the video, protecting his left buttcheek from full disclosure. So I wrote this story on the supposition that Sherlock was, indeed, wearing them and why. It's silly, but I hope you enjoy it.

“OK, Sherlock, where are they?” John asked, as he desperately pawed through their shared underwear drawer.

 

Sherlock looked up from his cross-legged sitting position on the bed, perplexed. “What?”

 

John cast a glance over his shoulder. “You know what I’m talking about. The _underwear_.”

 

Sherlock snorted indelicately and waved a dismissive hand. “There’s _plenty_ of underwear in there. Take your pick.” He turned his attention back to his phone, checking his morning emails.

 

Leaning an arm on the dresser, John turned to Sherlock and specified, “The ladies’ panties. The white ones. With the lace.”

 

Long, agile fingers froze in mid-text. After chewing on his lower lip for a moment, Sherlock responded, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, John. Is this some sort of fantasy that you…?”

 

John slammed his palm on the top of the dresser, rattling anything loose on its top. Sherlock started, finally looking up at John, still chewing his lip delicately. He lowered his phone and rested his elbows on his knees. “You’re demented,” he said, slowly and with careful enunciation.

 

“I _know_ they’re here somewhere, Sherlock. Do you think I missed them? You _may_ not have realized it, but I was watching your arse _very_ closely when you _tried_ to walk away from Mycroft in Buckingham Palace that time.” He leaned forward at the waist to emphasize his point. “I _saw_ you wearing white cotton ladies’ underwear. With lace on the top band and legs. They _barely_ covered your crack.” He straightened up, his expression one of challenge. “I want to know where they are.”

 

One wooly eyebrow arched in combined query and insolence. “Why, John? Were you planning on _wearing_ them?”

 

“Hah!” John crowed. “So they really _do_ exist! I thought so, but I wasn’t _entirely_ sure.”

 

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and bent his head back over his phone, annoyed by the way in which he had just been played by his flatmate.

 

John cocked an eyebrow, a barely-suppressed smile crinkling his face. “So, now that we’ve determined for sure that they _exist_ , where are they?”

 

Sherlock emitted a long-suffering sigh. “Gone.”

 

“Gone?” John repeated, obviously crestfallen. “Where?”

 

“Trashed,” Sherlock intoned grimly. He looked up at John, liquid silver eyes evaluating all visual cues, even as he spoke. “I…had no further need of them.” His nose crinkled in puzzlement, an expression John usually found endearing. Now, however, he was too annoyed to notice.

 

“Damn!” He slapped the top of the dresser again. This time, _Sherlock_ was the one who looked annoyed. He cocked his head insolently to one side and focused his intense gaze on his lover. Quietly, but with purpose, he asked, “Why is this so important, John?”

 

John blew air out through his nose. “Nothing,” he said, peevishly. He forcefully shoved the drawer closed, pushing himself away from it at the same time. “Nothing important.” With that, he strode out of the bedroom, his slippers making flapping sounds in his haste.

 

Sherlock watched him go without comment. He _tried_ to return to his emails, but this whole situation niggled at him. It wasn’t like John to get so bent out of shape over something so trivial, something Sherlock hadn’t even been _aware_ he had known about.

 

He unfolded his long, pajama-clad legs, wrapped his dressing gown around his shoulders to keep out the chill from the drafty old windows of their shared flat, and padded on bare feet into the front rooms. There, he found John, sitting at the desk in the front of the living room, laptop open, perusing something with interest—so much so that he didn’t initially hear Sherlock lightly cross the floor. It wasn’t until a head, topped with dark, mussed, curly hair leaned across his shoulder that he jerked in surprise, his hand flashing out to slam the lid of his laptop shut. “ _What the hell_ , Sherlock! You nearly gave me a _heart_ attack…”

 

The look on Sherlock’s face, accompanied by his daunting, cross-armed posture as he straightened up, made the rest of John’s words die in his throat. His expression was thunderous, sharp eyes glittering with a warning as he looked down at his friend, lover, and flatmate.

 

When he finally spoke, his words were carefully measured but his tone was menacing. “John, what is this all about?” When John opened his mouth and attempted to speak, Sherlock imperiously cut him off with a chop of his hand. “I saw what you were doing, John. You were looking at _porn_ again, weren’t you? Women in...” Sherlock cut himself off, then drew himself up to his full height in his indignation. “Why?” he spat, his normally beautiful face screwed up in anger. “Are you _bored_ with me already, John? Am I not _enough_ for you?”

 

John looked up helplessly into the face of his lover’s anger, trying to figure out what to say. His brow creased in thought for a few moments, then he said, reasonably, “Sherlock, you’ve never had a problem with this before, so what’s different now?”

 

Sherlock’s response showed John that he had asked _exactly_ the wrong question. Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelief and dismay. “’What’s _different_?’ he mocked with an exaggerated movement of his head and shoulders, then continued, “What, haven’t you noticed? We’re a _couple_ now, _aren’t_ we? Or is this just a convenient relationship to occupy your time while you looked for your _next_ female ‘conquest’, _Captain_ ‘ _Three Continents’ Watson_?”

 

And with that, Sherlock turned in a swirl of silk robe and righteous indignation and stormed back into the bedroom, slamming the door so hard the walls of the old brick building shook.

 

_Ah, shit,_ John thought, appalled at the turn things had taken. _Fuck it to hell_ …

 

“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson’s high-pitched voice drifted up the stairs.

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!” John called out from his chair. “Bit of a domestic up here. Sorry to disturb you. _And_ the neighbors.”

 

“I understand, dear, but _do_ talk to Sherlock and ask him not to slam door so forcefully, would you, please?”

 

John took a deep breath and let it out softly as he rested his head in his hand, elbow on the desk. “Of course, Mrs. H. Will do.”

 

After he heard his landlady’s door shut and latch, John swung around and looked toward the path his flatmate had blazed to his room. _Their_ room, now. He closed his eyes, trying to bring everything back into focus. He _knew_ Sherlock could be jealous at times, but _this_ seemed out of the ordinary, a bit extreme, even for him. John knew he was going to have to go in there and brave the beast in his lair. He just wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at _all_.

 

One more deep breath and he levered himself out of his chair. Perhaps a cup of tea might help smooth things over. _Maybe_. Unlikely, though. _Maybe I should spike it with a sedative, make him more receptive_ , he thought as he put the kettle on and, stretching up on tiptoe, retrieved two matching mugs.

 

_You’re such a bastard, Sherlock_ , he thought, knowing that Sherlock would deliberately put commonly-used items up on a higher shelf just so John would have to ask him for help, thereby allowing Sherlock to guiltlessly touch or rub up against John. While Sherlock _might_ be very affectionate and physically intimate in bed, he had yet to move past that reserve as far as the rest of the flat was concerned. After all, their new relationship was _still_ in its infancy, and Sherlock had always had a problem with boundaries, choosing to make them _too_ strict rather than too lenient when it came to physical contact.

 

Finally, the kettle sang and John removed it from the burner, pouring out two identical portions and dropping teabags into each. He added a little milk to his, a little sugar to Sherlock’s, and steeled himself to enter the bedroom.

 

Once at the door, he knocked softly, careful not to spill either mug. No response. John then bumped open the door (which, gratefully, had no lock) and stepped inside. “Sherlock?” Still no response. John looked over toward the bed and noticed a large, still mass under the comforter, not even a head showing. _Sulking. Great. This just gets better and better._ He moaned to himself. _How can an adult male be so damned immature?_ But he knew the answer to that.

 

Because it’s Sherlock. And Sherlock never does things by halves. Therefore, full-on snit.

 

John set one knee on the side of the bed closest to the door and laid both cups down on the bedside table. He tentatively reached out one hand and laid it on what he _surmised_ was a shoulder and shook gently. _Still_ no response. A little harder shake followed, accompanied by his name in a neutral tone. Still nada. Finally, John had just had enough. A hard slap to the lump’s apparent backside elicited a howl of protest and a sudden flurry of movement. John’s war-hardened reflexes allowed him to deflect the back-handed swing aimed at his head as Sherlock surfaced like a submarine performing an emergency blow. John grabbed his arm and held it, then grabbed his _other_ wrist when Sherlock tried to extricate his first arm from John’s steely grip.

 

The two of them sat, their faces only a hands-breadth away, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock’s face was still rumpled in anger, while John merely stared him down, waiting for the storm to pass. Part of him wanted to break out into laughter from the ludicrousness of the situation. Sherlock knew he couldn’t best John in a tussle, for all of his extra 4 inches of height. John gazed calmly into his friend’s eyes and said, softly, “Are you done with your snit fit yet? Or shall we have a _real_ domestic? I can promise you, you won’t enjoy it.” His voice was very matter-of-fact, firm.

 

Sherlock’s face transitioned from angry to petulant in under half a minute. A slight pout pursed his full lips into even _more_ of a cupid’s bow. He looked crestfallen. When he tried to crawl back under the covers, John maintained his grip on Sherlock’s wrists, hauling him back upright. It was like trying to get a cranky child out of bed for school.

 

John released one hand and, reaching over, picked up a mug, and pressed it into Sherlock’s now-free hand. He then released the other arm he had been holding prisoner. He watched as Sherlock loosened up that arm and then held his mug of tea with both hands, sipping quietly. His head was down but his eyes flicked up to meet John’s. He was still sulky. He took another sip of tea and remarked, “You remembered the sugar.”

 

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Well, of _course_ I did, Sherlock. I mean, how long have we been living together?”

 

Another sip. Then, “Obviously not long enough to have worked out all of our issues.” His eyes dropped to his mug again.

 

A deep sigh. “Alright, Sherlock, tell me what precipitated all this.”

 

Sherlock’s head jerked upright, revealing a mask of hurt. “ _You_ did!” He eyed John with resentment.

 

John shook his head as he put his hands up in a forestalling motion. “Wait…wait a minute! What did I do?”

 

Sherlock rested his mug on one thigh. “You started it all this morning with that…that…” His hand waved angrily at the dresser, “white panty _bullshit_.” Sherlock almost never cursed. He glared at the smaller man. “Why was that so important, hmm? Did you think you could _embarrass_ me with it? Or were you thinking along… _other_ lines?”

 

“Excuse me… _what_ ‘other lines’?”

 

Silence. Sherlock was trying to contain himself, regain his composure before speaking. When he finally did, his voice was subdued. “Women.” It almost sounded like a question rather than a response.

 

“Wait…what?” John stumbled, nonplussed. “Sherlock, please…explain.”

 

More silence. Sherlock looked miserable—worse, he looked _fearful_. Sherlock had _always_ come across as being fearless, feckless even, in his day-to-day life, and yet…here, Sherlock couldn’t even _look_ at him.

 

John reached out and laid his small, strong hand over one of Sherlock’s long-fingered ones. “What are you trying to say, love?” he said, ever so gently.

 

It was as difficult to hear the words as it was to get them out. “You’re…bi-sexual. You said so yourself.”

 

John tilted his head quizzically. “Yeah. Finally admitted it to myself after all those years of denial, but you _know_ all that. It’s the reason we’re together _now_.” He gave Sherlock’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “How is it suddenly a problem?”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. Then, it all seemed to come out in a jumbled rush.

 

“You are sexually and romantically interested in both men and women. You spent years while in the army bedding many women, am I correct?” He looked up and John nodded. “Also some men, like Sholto. However, you’ve only ever dated women in the time that we’ve lived together, although I’ve seen you flirt with other men in that time, too.”

 

“We weren’t together then,” John clarified, nervous about the direction this conversation had taken.

 

“I know,” a hard swallow, eyes still averted, “but you _could_ have anyone you wanted. You have...many choices. I only have one.”

 

“Whoa, whoa,” John interrupted. “Let’s back up here, Sherlock. Just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I’m constantly ‘on the prowl’ for a new ‘conquest’ of either sex. You and I are together _now_ and I don’t want to fuck that up. It’s too _important_ to me. _You’re_ too important to me.”

 

“You were married to Mary, flirting with another woman, and indifferent to _me_...”

 

John’s eyes rolled in frustration. “Yeah, so I married Mary, and I’m not proud of having almost strayed, but there was _no way_ I was indifferent to you. If _anything_ , you being around just made it more difficult for me to keep my head in the game with _Mary_...”

 

Quizzical silver eyes rose to meet his. “Then what was this morning all about? And why were you looking at women in their underwear on your laptop?” he asked, his tone still a bit truculent.

 

“Aw, crap,” John muttered, finally putting it all together. “I’m a bloody idiot.”

 

“No argument from me.”

 

He removed Sherlock’s cooled mug of tea from his thigh and placed it on the bedside table. Then he dragged his lover over to him, hugging him tightly and planting a kiss on his be-fringed forehead. “Do you think I would trade you for _anyone_ _else_ in this world, Sherlock? Did you _actually_ think I was trawling for another lover?” He tilted Sherlock’s head so he could kiss those full, still-pouty lips with all the tenderness and passion they deserved. The response was encouraging.

 

“John, then why…?”

 

“That day at the Palace, with you wrapped in that sheet…remember I asked you if you were wearing any pants?”

 

“Ye-e-es…” Sherlock drawled out.

 

John smirked at him. “Well, I was so turned on by the thought that you were sitting there, buck naked under that sheet, that I had a hard time paying attention to _anything_ Mycroft had to say. And then when you walked away and that sheet came off…”

 

Sherlock scowled becomingly. “I _still_ resent Mycroft for that.”

 

A dry chuckle escaped John’s throat. “Well, as soon as I saw those panties, I got _such_ a boner I could hardly walk! It’s a good thing you had to go into the other room to dress or I probably wouldn’t have been able to walk out of there without a limp!”

 

A sweet but tentative smile drifted across Sherlock’s lips as he squeezed John’s hand, but his eyes were still shadowed. “Then what about your laptop…”

 

John chuckled again. “When you walked over, I was using a search for women’s underwear to find what I wanted. It wasn’t porn, love. Although,” he added ruefully, “sometimes those catalogues can kind of _look_ that way to the _uninitiated_ ,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at Sherlock, who blushed appropriately. John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s face, over those magnificent cheekbones, and down to his plump lips, which he kissed once again. “You are the most _unworldly_ man I’ve ever met, in some ways” he murmured affectionately. “Usually it’s the _women_ who have led sheltered lives. Anyway,” he continued, matter-of-factly, “I was actually shopping for some underwear just like the ones _you_ were wearing.”

 

Sherlock looked perplexed. “Why? I mean, that’s why I thought you were, you know…going to start _dating_ again. You were already shopping for things for _her_.”

 

John threw his head back in disbelief. “You great idiot, I was going to buy them for _you_!”

 

“What?” Sherlock straightened up in surprise. “For _me_? Whatever for?”

 

“Well, you’ve already made it clear that you’re willing to _wear_ such things,” John teased, “And considering the effect it had on me the _last_ time… _Now_ what’s the matter?”

 

Sherlock was gnawing on his lip again. “Does this mean you’re already bored with me?”

 

Shaking his head, John retorted, “ _Jesus Christ on a stick,_ Sherlock _, no_! You are the most exciting, enticing, sexy, delightfully innocent, maddening, beautiful lover I’ve _ever_ had or could ever _hope_ to have! I wouldn’t trade you for _anything_ or _anyone_! I just thought it might add a little… _spice_ , that’s all!”

 

The shadows left Sherlock’s eyes and he smiled—a real, honest-to-Sherlock smile, the kind that made John’s knees wobble and his cock grow three-fold. Sherlock bracketed John’s face with his long, delicate hands and kissed him tenderly, a kiss John returned with relief and not just a little heat. When they came up for air, finally, Sherlock gazed down into his eyes and said, “Then you still love me? I’m still...enough for you?”

 

John slipped his arms around his dearest friend-cum-lover and stated, emphatically, “You are an embarrassment of riches, my love. You are a diamond mine that I could _never_ exhaust. However, I must know,” John’s face screwed up questioningly, “why, exactly, _were_ you wearing those panties, anyway? And why did you tell me you weren’t _wearing_ any pants?”

 

Sherlock looked coyly at John through his thick, sooty lashes as he explained, “Well, I knew that, ever since we met, I’ve been feeling things for you that I’ve never felt for anyone else, so I started doing research into those areas in which I was lacking data. One of them was, well, what got you sexually aroused, so I would look at the browsing history on your laptop when you were gone and follow the links to see what you liked.”

 

“Go on,” John said, with the tiniest growl in his voice. John _hated_ to have his privacy intruded upon.

 

“Well, I found out that you had something of an interest in ladies’ underthings, particularly lacy ones. In white. So I bought a pair to try to see what the fuss was all about.” Sherlock tilted his head and pursed his lips pensively, a smile tugging at one corner. “I must admit, they were quite soft and…comfortable. Unfortunately, that was the day Mycroft’s men came to get me at the flat and I couldn’t get away to take them off. So-o-o…”

 

John laughed out loud at the story and Sherlock grinned in shared amusement. “So you end up at the Palace in lacy women’s underwear! Good God!” He laughed so hard that tears actually started running down his cheeks. Sherlock just sat there and watched him, always loving to see “his John” laugh.

 

After wiping the tears from his face, John pursued his _first_ question. “So why did you tell me you weren’t wearing pants when I asked you?”

 

Sherlock shrugged good-naturedly. “Because I wasn’t _wearing_ pants. I was wearing “panties”. Did you _honestly_ expect me to admit that? At _any_ time?”

 

“My God, I love you, you incredible berk,” John laughed, kissing his lover again and again. “You are always so full of surprise! Now, drink your tea and get ready. We have a lot to do today.” He winked. “And maybe, later on, we’ll do some shopping…”


End file.
